8781 Kilometers to Piccadilly Circus
by MakoMori
Summary: England swore that he would never lay a finger on any part of Russia, but bound by a mutual betrayal in light of America's feelings, the two concoct a scheme to get back at him by getting together. Hints of USUK and RusAme.


It ended at the junction of Piccadilly Circus and Glasshouse Street. England has his umbrella out even though it doesn't rain, but something about being under his black umbrella, underneath grey skies, underneath America's gaze, brings him comfort. England checks his watch, notices that America does the same, and he catches a blue-eyed sidelong glance. America has said nothing all day, and England knows it is odd, as now would be the time when England would politely ask America to stop explaining the legacy of the Wayne family. Instead he asks America if he is feeling well, because a un-talkative America is an unwell America. America looks as if snapped from a trance, then he turns and faces England with a hurt look in his eyes. He says he's in love with someone else and that he shouldn't see England anymore - then he apologizes, a feat in its own, and leaves, umbrella and all. Only after America turns the corner does it begin to rain, and as it soaks into England's coat, he realizes that he doesn't care.

It ended at the intersection of 3rd Avenue and 92nd Street. Russia comments, something about how loud it is for nearly midnight, and all America says in response is a quiet hum. Russia can barely hear it over the sound of a passing taxi, but he knows that America had said it because… well, it's all he's said all night. Russia had grown accustomed to the unnatural silence that night; the taxis and pedestrians spoke for them, filled the gaps that their silences occupied. America is silent through dinner, dessert, and as he accompanies Russia to the taxi. The most words Russia hears that night were America telling the taxi driver to where to take his guest. And Russia leans in for a kiss. America doesn't return it with his lips, but the taxi door. Russia rolls down the window, and America, burrowed away in the thickness of his collar, tells him they shouldn't see each other anymore. Russia's retaliation is drowned out by the sound of America ordering the driver to drive off, and then the taxi is drowned out in the sea of lights.

It started outside of Kensington High Street. England can feel rain soaking into his new trench coat. He keeps cursing himself for not checking the weather that morning, reaches into a dispenser to grab one of those free, cheap weekly papers where his eyes catch the weather - Today, Sunday: Sunny with a high of 27 C - and he gives that 'sunny day' the satisfaction of soaking away in the rain as he holds it over his head as temporary shelter. A man with an umbrella grey as the skies walks before him, almost giving England a pitying look as the Londoner bypasses the intersection and takes cover under the awning of a tavern.

England pretends not to associate the rain and the umbrellas - iconography almost synonymous with _him_ - with America, about six kilometers from the street he'd last seen him.

He doesn't count today, he reminds himself, as he'd spent a great deal of the conference pretending the other nation wasn't there. France knew something was wrong when the green-eyed nation had said nothing to combat America's ridiculous ideas, and promptly took on the responsibility himself. He knows which hotel America was staying at, and he casually realizes that in his idle stroll he might have been heading in the direction of it.

England breathes out a word of gratefulness to the rain for stalling him. He wonders if it will give him enough time to come up with an excuse for being at America's hotel later, after months had passed since his last visit - or thinks that perhaps the rain will carry on until England cannot do so and retires to his home in Kensington.

After depositing the soiled paper in a nearby bin, England examines himself in the darkened window, noting how similar his hair is to moss the way it sticks to his forehead. He picks at his mattered hair, barely catching a glimpse of the tired look in his eyes through the thick lettering of the tavern's name. The letters B-A-R in succession were enough to lure him indoors - if not just for the warmth it provided. One drink wouldn't hurt, he assures himself; a scotch and plain water.

(Without America here to make sure he gets home-)

The bar is filled with the sound of chattering, dimly-lit, and thankfully the bar stools were a formidable distance from the entrance. He hangs his drenched coat on a nearby hook and takes the closest available bar stool near a man hunched around his drink.

"Scotch please," England addresses the bartender who took his stance across from him. "Plain, on the rocks."

"Leave the bottle," the man besides him chimes in unceremoniously, and England would open his mouth to protest if his eyes had not caught a glimpse of a… _foreign _shade of unnaturally blonde hair.

"Russia, what are you-"

"Probably the same reason that you are here." Russia commented without skipping a beat.

"_I_," the Brit explained, affronted, "am here to escape from the rain."

"You are here because you were going to America's hotel and then got caught in the rain."

If England could have said any clever lie in response to that, it would have already fled his mouth. Maybe the reason he didn't was because the bartender had just put his drink before him, or maybe it was because… Russia was telling the truth. Russia spoke as if from experience, and England distantly wondered if Russia was in the same predicament, and he would have asked, but his mouth was far too busy working that scotch down his throat.

And he almost wished that Russia had not asked for the bottle because it was a little too tempting to pass up his second and third drink.

He cannot much recall his proposal. Somewhere between the haze of alcohol and darkness peering at the corners of his eyes, England had twisted in his bar stool. He'd grabbed the front of Russia's shirt, and said, "you know what would be a bloody brilliant idea? What'f we were to _pretend-" _(he'd jabbed Russia in the chest with his finger to emphasize that point) "-that _we _were together. That… that'll make America jealous!"

And somehow Russia had thought that it was a decent idea. He had only realized that _after _their lips had met. And while Russia's brows knit together, he caught himself drowning in the familiarity of it - it was different, different than any nation or human he'd kissed, but there was something familiar about it. Something strictly… _American. _

England had been the one to teach America how to kiss. He'd trained him how to give and take, used those tricks on many nations before… Russia, and it was working just as well.

It had lured the taller nation back to his home in Kensington.

It had beckoned the Muscovite to his bedroom.

It had convinced Russia out of his clothes.

And somewhere between the friction and the sheets and the sighs it had occurred to England that they would actually… _need _America _there_ in order to make him jealous.

-:- -:- -:-

England cannot remember the first time that he and America had kissed. America jokes, "probably sometime _before _the Revolution," and England agrees it was sometime during the Seven Years' War. They drop the subject later, and the only thing that touches England's lips that night is the wine glass. England is certain that their first kiss was sometime between the years 1756 and 1763, but he cannot remember the _last _time he'd kissed America.

Yet he can realizes as he swallows the last of his Merlot that he can vividly remember the last time he'd kissed Russia.

The only thing that touches Russia's lips that night is the metal prongs of a fork; the only thing that his tongue tastes is whatever France had made that night. It's sweet, salty, and accompanied by a name Russia cannot remember, and a burning candle between them. Russia cannot remember the first time he and France had slept together, but France _assures _him that it was during the reign of Catherine the Great. Russia agrees, though he cannot confirm that, but mostly for the sake of ending the discussion at a point where Russia does not have to twist his hands in his napkin to keep the blush to a minimum.

Russia knows he cannot keep secrets from France (France could tell something had been bothering the Slav); he tells the other nation that he'd slept with England. And as he registers the sound of France choking on his wine, he tells the Parisian that he wants to do it again.

He has to help France get wine stains out his carpet that night.

And England never tolerates tardiness. He's punctual. He arrives precisely when needed. If someone asks him to be there at eleven, he arrives at ten-fifty-nine and fifty-eight seconds.

Which was exactly why-

"You're late."

"I'm sorry. You know I had a meeting with my bosses at eleven, and I _had _to get something to eat."

England waved his hand at the other nation, and then presented it with a pointed knit to his eyebrows. The taller nation rolled his eyes and yanked the keys from his pocket and England felt the teeth of America's house key dig into his palm.

"Look, dude, I don't know why you can't just rent one of those Mini Coopers at the airport or something, or just take a bus, but just make sure that you get it back to me by like, uhh- tonight or something, and don't crash it- cause, you know, we drive on the normal- well, the right side of the road here." America caught a glimpse of the slightly unamused look England was giving him. "And I don't really need to tell you any of this, do I?"

"Not at all, America. I am perfectly capable of mirroring my driving habits to ensure the pristine condition of your... Range Rover."

"Yeah, I guess," America filled his cheeks with air and deflated, "I mean, it's not like I'm giving the keys to my car to Italy or something."

"Exactly. And I will have your car back to you by this this evening. Good day to you, America." The Englishman quickly stashed America's keys in his pocket, feeling the corners of membership cards prodding him in the thigh as he moved toward the door.

"Hey England."

As the Barnes & Noble Rewards card dug into England's skin, he found himself pausing at the half-opened door. "Yes?"

"I... it was nice to see you again, you know?" The American shuffled his feet, one shoulder slouching while his hand fought its way into his jeans' pocket. "The last time we talked, our conversation was really awkward and I just wanted to make sure that you still don't feel uncomfortable around me."

The Englishman considered America's expression for a minute. "I'll be back here after supper. Try not to be late this time."

England did not catch sight of America waving at him as he reversed out of the driveway.

-:- -:- -:-

What perturbed England the most about his trek along the highway that ran parallel to the beach was that his passenger had not once acknowledged him. Russia wasn't blameless, as he stared off at a sky robbed of the blues and yellows of a midday afternoon by the blanket of dark clouds.

It wasn't until the two of them had finally located a parking spot did Russia allow England to see more than just the profile of his face. England shut off the engine and turned away so Russia could only see the curve of his cheek. "I don't imagine we'll be staying here for very long with how ominous these clouds are looking, so don't get too comfortable. We might be packing up soon."

"Maybe the storm will pass over us," Russia countered as he threw a towel over his shoulder. "None of the other beach goers seem to be worried by the cloud cover, so why should we?"

The moment England felt sand lodge between his toes another less pleasant sensation graced his skin. He considered for only a moment that it had been the icy touch of Russia's fingertips that had sent the shiver down his spine, but a glance down at his arm confirmed his suspicions that the clouds contained rain. The women lying on their beach towels located their flip flops and keys in the sand and quickly made way to their powder blue cars. Men fought the awnings back on their convertibles. Children dipped their feet in the waves one last time before cocooning themselves in Disney-themed towels.

The entire beach packed up and left before the second raindrop landed on England's twitching brow. Only when his eyes met Russia's still-smiling face did a frown accompany it.

At least until he noticed the look in Russia's eyes. England blew up at his own bangs and stepped in front of the opposite headlight of the car to Russia's side. "The meeting lasts all week. We'll have other days to visit the beach, mate."

"Da," the taller nation's exhale was lost on a passing breeze. England patted Russia's mid-back to usher him back to the car before he slipped into the driver's seat, but just as the rain started beating erratically against the windshield England noted that Russia had not moved from the spot he'd left him.

England rolled his eyes and beat his fist against the door before opening it. Half-standing in rain he couldn't hear his own thoughts over, England found his voice over the call of thunder. "Russia! Get in the bloody car, you're going to catch a cold standing in this!"

In the distance the ocean waves towered and washed halfway up the beach front.

Seeing that Russia was not very keen on moving as fast as the capacity of England's patience, he climbed back into the driver's seat and slammed the door. Russia slipped into the seat beside him, his white shirt soaked and hair clinging to his forehead like swamp moss. The Englishman reached down for the button to set his chair in the furthest back position for leg room. "We'll have to wait this storm out; I'm not driving in this."

Beside him Russia had already pulled his knees to his chest in some form of surrender to England's statement. He barely noticed England reaching behind his seat to grab one of the towels they'd intended on flattening out on the sand.

"Here," England presented the towel with a stern tone. "You're soaking, and America would not appreciate us getting his leather seats wet."

Russia took the towel from England none-too-kindly, dabbing down his forehead to mop up the droplets clinging to the ends of his hair. "How kind of America to lend us his car!" he mumbled into the towel sarcastically. As a sign to just how much he appreciated America's gesture, Russia slipped his drenched scarf off of his neck and wrung it out on the floor by his feet.

"Look," the Londoner took the towel from Russia's hands and ran the material up his own arms, then brushed the cloth along Russia's now exposed neck. He caught a flash of different emotion in Russia's eyes before his eyelids covered it, noted how Russia's head quirked to compensate for the movements of England's hand (which was now peeking past the towel to draw a line along his jugular), and saw how Russia's jaw dropped a little just to _"Ah~"_

"Yes," England leaned in, letting the towel and his hand draw down Russia's sternum. He was careful to assure that his lips landed on Russia's jawline before the towel moved to dry his swim trunks. "It is _very _kind of America to lend us his car."

England wasted no time in catching Russia's lips the moment the other nation turned to face him. The moisture from the rain still slick on Russia's lips let their mouths glide together, let England's tongue slip out and taste the subtle hints of saltwater in their kiss. Russia wasn't intimately focused on the kiss, but rather the amount of increasing pressure that England was using on the towel to dry his swimming trunks. Fighting open the horrendous flower-patterned, button-down shirt he'd borrowed from America, England peeled the drenched T-shirt from Russia's skin and banished it by the car pedals.

Even through the little restraint of his thin swimwear fabric, the relief that came with the tugging down of his swim trunks was moan-inducing. Russia had become so lost in the momentary rush of bliss that he barely noticed that England had discarded the towel completely. The Englishman sneered, dragging his tongue along the shell of Russia's ear. "We're going to need a little more room than this," he purred, fingers barely brushing along the vein of Russia's cock, listening to the _ah, ah, aaah'_s that came after every sharp inhale.

Through the sound of the rain beating against windshield, Russia's ears caught the electrical sound of their seat lowering their hard-pressed bodies to a degree almost parallel. Sooner than Russia's head hit the seat did the force of England's mouth press it there, teeth sinking in until he could clearly hear Russia's moans over the rain on the sunroof. "We can't stay like this," the Englishman crushed his words against the other nation's lips. "Here-"

He caught Russia by the roots of his hairs, dragging his open-mouthed kiss along the turn of Russia's jaw. Somewhere between half-vocalized mutterings of England's name, the two of them moved in a slow tango within the confines of the passenger seat, the end result being that England had pinned himself beneath the larger nation - his gaze caught between Russia's half-lidded eyes and the rainwater sliding along the sunroof. Once his eyes had fixated on a drop of rain cascading down the windowpane, he was shocked when a drop of moisture that had accumulated on the end of Russia's nose landed just shy of his eye. Russia was closing in.

And England hears the shuddering inhales of his companion before their lips meet. He catches the sound of his own voice hitching after Russia does away with his powder blue trunks. He feels the movement of Russia shifting on top of him before a rather large beach towel settled over their tangled bodies, and he watches the way the towel accents the Russian's curves near his hips - tears at his bottom lip when Russia grinds down, and then swallows around his own moan when he hears those _ah, ah, aah_'s again.

But it's hard not to miss the look of muted disappointment on Russia's face when England reaches not for his skin, but to pull open the middle console and grope around the extremities - mostly empty chip bags, emergency granola bars, tissues, coupons, and if memory served-

England plucks several multicolored condoms, among crumpled bits of potato crisps and paperclips. The Englishman pretends not to notice the rather worried in his companion's expression as he watches England fish around the console further until his fingers form around a small bottle.

"Hand lotion?" it was difficult not to mask the note of discomfort in Russia's voice.

"Unless you want me leap out the car to fetch you some wet sand, this'll have to make do."

Russia looked somewhat dejected, his face contorting to the images triggered by England's threat, even while he watched England tear open the small package with his teeth. A cherry red condom tumbled out onto his chest, then England's teeth closed around something that made Russia's spine arch - and as his teeth and tongue tweaked the Muscovite's right nipple, the bottle of cheap hotel lotion Russia had been trying to pry open single-handily tumbled out from between his teeth to spill half its contents on England's abdomen. "You are making such a mess-"

But England doesn't say anything beyond that, and drags his finger pads over the trails of white left across his ribs. He caught Russia's eyes for a brief moment, then the flash of red on his cheeks, and the way those purple irises followed the movement of England's thumb while it slicked up his fingers with an even coating. Russia shifted, teeth sinking into his own lip when he felt the other nation's fingers work him open - and the way that the nail of his pinky finger would occasionally curl in to trace lines along the base of Russia's cock.

And the platinum-blonde nation caught a moan before it could escape, his eyes half-mast, as he shifted up to properly straddle the man beneath him. England gives him a look, then stares up at the hastening pace of the rain on the sunroof before Russia eclipses the light with his tensing form. And England can _feel _just how tense he when the Russian presses down on him.

Even under the cover of the cloud cover, the light of the sun behind it fills the vehicle. England can see the windows fogging with each moaning exhale, but the last he sees of the windows is an impression of a swaying pine tree before his eyes are overcome with the darkness of the towel Russia had thrown over their heads.

And in the midst of the satisfaction - the kisses, the bites, the bruises, the bliss, pleasure, screams, moans, movements, cries - nothing was more satisfactory than the knowledge that all of it was contained within the confines of America's prized property.

(And maybe he liked to think that Russia and England were his property, as he stares out his window at the California rainstorm and counts the hours until England said he would return. And he wonders if Russia will pull up with him, if he'll say anything when America walks up to the car and notices the fog on the windows and the stench that even his pine air freshener cannot mask.)

So when Russia comes, it's suppressed, drowned out in the action of England sucking on his tongue, as if he's worried some memory of America in here can hear them.


End file.
